On a Friar Spending Too Much Time in His Room

My habit hangs like a dead man-
lifeless behind the closet door,
and when I turn my gaze, he moves,
but only enough to be seen.
I've tried to catch him in the act
but he's always one step ahead.
When I read alone to myself,
he tries to look over my head.
And when I nap, just after noon,
I feel his glare upon my back,
so I sit up and yell "Shut up
you fool, no one likes you!"
And he, in his hidden motions,
hides behind himself on the door,
and I lay there as still as him.
Feeling like an overturned turtle,
I turn to him and say "I'm sorry,
I haven't been feeling like myself."
Even though there's no reaction
I know that he has heard me,
and, turning my head, I hope
that my sins won't leave a stain
or cause another thread to break.